


Trick or Treat

by maple_clef



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Gen, Halloween, Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-27 00:55:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8381575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maple_clef/pseuds/maple_clef
Summary: In our defence, the timing was pretty unfortunate. None of us were at our best, and the combination of Nightingale looking like… and Toby’s accident… and I don’t normally wear the helmet. And Molly… well, actually, Molly was just Molly, to be fair.
And let’s face it, he had it coming…





	

Let me start at the beginning. A very good place to start, as my homegirl Julie Andrews said. But don’t worry – nobody is going to be singing. There has been enough horror for the night.

Despite what Seawoll said about it being “the day for weird bollocks”, Halloween at The Folly is actually pretty boring, in my experience. There’s a lot more noise around this time of the year, but a lot of it is your basic suggestibility coupled with darker evenings and a lack of better things to think about, all of which heightens things. Basically, the call volume rises but the hit rate of your actual Falcon events does not.

This surprised me, actually – clearly there’s a certain tradition around All Hallows’ Eve, and there’s power in tradition and ritual. When I asked Nightingale about this, he said he gathered there used to be much more for them to deal with back in the day, but it dropped off after the war and never seemed to recover. Which is interesting, isn’t it? Probably something to do with the commercialisation of the day; it’s not really *about* the ritual anymore; just an excuse for rampant consumerism, plus shits and giggles. Nightingale said I was clutching at straws, and he’s right. But I still managed to pique Walid’s interest enough to monopolise the conversation over tea yesterday afternoon, because straw-clutching is fun – particularly when it irritates your superiors.

Not that Nightingale took the bait – he was a bit distracted by arrangements for today. The grapevine having been pruned a little further, the remaining members of the Folly – those who were mobile and well enough, at least – were in town to pay their respects at the funeral, which was at St George’s in Holborn. Some of them were staying over that night, so Molly was on high alert and, I suspect, excited to have an excuse to use the good china (which is distinguishable from the normal stuff only by the gilding on the Folly’s crest).

I had been hoping to bump into Hugh Oswald, who was among the overnighters, but it was clearly past his bedtime by the time Guleed dropped me back at Russell Square. I could hear muted voices in the smoking room, and hesitated by the door, wondering whether insatiable curiosity and the politeness my mum had instilled in me would win out over my sudden weariness at the thought of meeting a bunch of ancient wizards and facing all the inevitable Looks and Questions. Of course, I waited too long, and as I heard the conversation stop I knew they were onto me. I opened the door.

At this precise moment, two things happened. A terrifying creature launched itself at me, shot between my legs and sent me stumbling over the threshold. And my phone announced the arrival of a text message. I knew it was from Beverley because she’d personalised the sound.

The risk of death by magic is not the only reason I normally turn off my phone when I’m in the Folly.

 

_…damn right, it’s better than yours_

_I can teach you, but I’d have to charge_

 

Three heads turned towards me as I regained my balance and Kelis finished her refrain.

‘Hello Peter,’ said Nightingale. ‘I thought I heard you come in.’

He was sitting on one of the leather armchairs, opposite two old white guys who I’d never met before. They both rose with Nightingale to greet me, the shorter of the two with some effort. The lankier one reached me first and stuck out a hand. His handshake was surprisingly firm as Nightingale introduced us.

‘Peter, this is Lord Shawcross. Edward, this is Peter Grant, my apprentice, and the newest member of our organisation.’

‘Pleasure to meet you, Peter,’ said Shawcross. ‘I’ve heard good things about you, of course.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ I said, resisting the urge to bow. It was all starting to feel a bit Downton Abbey.

‘Call me Edward, please,’ said Shawcross.

‘And this is Dr Stuart Marchbanks, Peter,’ said Nightingale.

‘Dr Marchbanks,’ I said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘Likewise, young man,’ said Marchbanks. ‘Well, well, well… so this is the Starling, eh?’

Two pairs of eyes bored into me. I glanced at Nightingale, who had the grace to share some of my embarrassment.

‘So I’ve been told,’ I offered.

In the end, it wasn’t so bad – it turned out that they’d been keen to glimpse me out of curiosity but would be reserving the interrogation for breakfast, having had strict instruction to wait until Oswald was present and able to participate. That suited me fine: one of Molly’s hearty breakfasts would be excellent fortification, and hopefully they wouldn’t be wearing formal dress the following day – it turns out wizarding funeral chic is pretty intimidating in triplicate. Both Nightingale and Marchbanks were wearing full military dress uniform – I guessed that their dead colleague had served alongside them. The taller man, Shawcross, was wearing a severe and somewhat dated suit that had probably served him very well as younger man but which now somewhat swamped his slim frame. If he seemed more funereal, it might be the air of ‘Hammer Horror undertaker’ he exuded, although he had seemed pleasant enough.

I left them talking about getting out the good port.

‘See if you can find Toby,’ said Nightingale after I’d made my excuses and made to leave. ‘Damn dog has the wind up his tail, or something. Well, you saw.’

‘Yes,’ I said. After nearly breaking my neck, Toby had skidded into the room behind me before scuttling away, I assumed in the direction of the kitchen, so I headed there myself.

 

There was no sign of Toby, but preparations for tomorrow’s breakfast were underway. There was a wonderful smell of kippers being smoked, the remnants of a fire in the grate, and Molly eyeing me silently over her chopping board and a glistening, red pile of what appeared to be liver.

‘Have you seen the dog?’ I asked. ‘Nightingale says he’s been causing trouble.’

Molly just frowned and shrugged.

‘He probably just needs a walk,’ I said. ‘I’m off to Bev’s but I’ll take him out if you can find him in the next half an hour.’

 

Bev’s text had been of the kind where it had been made clear that my presence was required, and that I should arrive dressed appropriately for the task in hand.

Which should explain the uniform.

The helmet had taken ages to find, but it did complete the look and would earn me definite brownie points. I started across the atrium towards the back door, whistling in the manner of a modern gent looking forward to spending a pleasant evening with his lady friend.

 

Then the doorbell rang.

 

That bloody doorbell always takes me a bit by surprise, because hardly anyone rings it – at least, not while I’m around to hear it. I guessed it would be trick-or-treaters. There had been a few kids with their parents in the Square earlier, although by now it was surely getting a bit late.

The doorbell also tends to herald the swift arrival of Molly, but apparently she was otherwise occupied so I changed course and strode back across the atrium to the front lobby and opened the door and stared.

I’m not sure who was more surprised: me, or the clown.

It was one of those stupid scary clown masks that have been all over the news, keeping my colleagues the world over busy these past few months. The effect would certainly have been more intimidating if the body language hadn’t betrayed him.

I figure the sight of a strapping young black copper in full uniform must have been a bit of a shock.

The whirling dervish who rocketed past me and started mauling the clown’s leg probably didn’t help. Toby – the prodigal mutt – had not calmed down since our previous encounter; rather, he seemed to have become even more excited owing – I found out later – to a run-in with a pigeon that had fallen down the chimney into the kitchen. This run-in had had the side-effect of coating both dog and pigeon with thick black soot, so Toby was really rocking the hell-hound look and, what’s more, seemed to have decided to exorcise whatever mania that had taken hold of him through the medium of clown-mastication.

The noise attracted the attention of Nightingale and his chums, all three of them rather merry with port. Shawcross, who was still holding the bottle when they clattered into the lobby, appeared to be wearing half of it – at least, I assume that was what accounted for the copious dark, red stains splashed across his white shirt.

In the strange light of the entrance hall, with the low-level lamps on the console tables, he looked rather gaunt and I understand how the clown may have come to a different conclusion.

As the spectre in the black shroud stepped aside to reveal two men in World War II era army dress uniform, the unfortunate would-be-miscreant started to wail.

 

Finally, Molly showed up. Evidently angry at the mess Toby had made, and still holding a knife recently used to chop fresh liver, her silent, sudden appearance and mute fury - perhaps coupled with the sight of his face reflected in the blade – proved to be too much.

 

The man stiffened, and then gracefully sunk to the floor in the welcoming embrace of what appeared to be a myocardial infarction.

‘Damn,’ said Nightingale as he knelt down to examine the casualty. ‘Toby, do _stop_ that. Well, Peter, I fear there might be additional paperwork on our way.’

I sighed and began CPR. Beverley was going to have to put her milkshake in the fridge for a while.

Marchbanks giggled. ‘I say, I’d forgotten how much _fun_ London can be Thomas. Wait til Hugh hears what he missed out on.’

 

It turns out that our unexpected guest - clown mask and all - was wanted for a string of aggravated burglaries, which he gratefully copped to under caution and which made the whole thing marginally less embarrassing for us. Although no less paperwork.

Guleed found it hilarious. Seawoll was happy that all his suspicions about “you bloody lot” had been confirmed (although, as I pointed out to him, this was a little unfair. After all, this was weird bollocks of the strictly amateur and non-Facon variety). Beverley forgave my non-attendance (I must remember to pick up my dress uniform the next time I’m in SW20).

 

And perhaps word had gotten around about strange goings-on on our doorstep, because the following year we would have no callers on Halloween at all.

 

Like it said, it’s a pretty peaceful time at the Folly. Who knew?


End file.
